Inescapable (The Premonition Series)

by Bartol, Amy A

  “Excuse me, Mr. MacKinnon, may I come in?” I ask tentatively from just inside his classroom doorway.

  “Ah, Genevieve, is it?” he asks, looking up from the projector. “Yes, please come in. Have you come to tell me that you will sit for me?” he asks confidently.

  “So, you’re a mind reader as well as an artist,” I reply. “I’m sorry I made you wait for my answer.”

  “That’s quite all right. It just shows that you’re wise beyond your years to question and not to take things at face value,” he compliments. “When can you sit for me?”

  “Tuesdays and Thursdays are good, since my afternoons are free. I have field hockey practice in the evenings,” I say.

  “Good, how’s three thirty until five sound? The afternoon light will be perfect for what I’m thinking about doing with you,” he says, scrutinizing me for whatever it is that he has in mind for the portrait.

  Feeling a little shy, I say, “I can do that. When should we start?”

  “Today, if you can. I’ll have my assistant, Debra, ready to take some pictures this afternoon. Three thirty,” he says, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically.

  “I’ll be there,” I reply. “Can I help you set up the projector?”

  “Oh…this…someone mixed up my slides. I’m going to be talking about the Paleolithic, Venus von Willendorf, but for some reason, my slides are out of order, you see…” he says, pointing to the screen at the front of the room, “I keep getting stuck on Hieronymus Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights. Some call it The Milienninm.”

  I try to hide my surprise because the painting is somewhat scandalous…umm, I mean high-art. “It looks very involved,” I say, gazing at the oil painting that depicts what seems to be a series of three separate paintings linked together.

  “It’s a triptych, which in this case is a heretical painting in three sections done in oil on wood. You see, the middle section is the largest, it’s a square, and two separate rectangles flank the square. The rectangles can be folded like shutters. Of course, when one does that, there is another painting on the other side. This one has a scene of the creation of the Earth, on what is believed to be the third day,” he explains.

  “What do these paintings depict?” I ask in fascination.

  “The left is said to be the Garden of Eden at the moment God presents Eve to Adam,” Mr. MacKinnon says enthusiastically as he waves his hand toward the left portion of the screen. “The middle panel is still the garden, but without God present and vastly more populated with fantastical creatures and highly creative nudes. And the right is a Hellscape that depicts damnation.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I say, somewhat speechless.

  “Yes, Bosch was well ahead of his time, you know, he painted this in about 1503. It is said to be his masterpiece, but I’m more partial to his Last Judgment triptych. Let me see if I can find the slide… ahh, here it is. The left panel is called Paradise. If you look at the bottom portion of it, it seems to depict Paradise and God creating Adam and Eve. In the middle of the same left panel of the painting is the temptation of Adam and Eve. It shows them being driven out of Eden by an angel of the Lord. At the top of the left panel, we see Heaven where God is seated and the angels are driving out the fallen angels. You see them there,” he says, pointing to the screen where painted angels battle among the clouds, “they’re at war with each other.”

  “Fascinating,” I manage to say as I sway a bit on my feet.

  Leaning up against one of the desks near me for support, my legs have a hard time holding me up. I can’t take my eyes off the top portion of the left panel called Paradise. The angels are at war, and the fallen angels are being cast out of Heaven. The Fallen are actually falling to Earth, well Eden anyway. I try to listen to what Mr. MacKinnon is saying about the other panels, but my ears are ringing, and my heart pounds in my chest.

  “We’ll go over this in minute detail in the middle of the semester,” he explains as he ends his brief lesson with a smile, clicking the projector to other works of art in his search for the Venus von Willendorf.

  A bead of sweat escapes my brow while the projector continues to throw garish color all around the room. “Thank you, Mr. MacKinnon, you’ve been very enlightening,” I murmur, before I go over to an empty desk and sit down.

  I resist the urge to put my head down on my desk when class begins. Instead, I stare fixedly at the enormous Paleolithic earth mother on the screen. I’m numb; all I’m capable of doing is breathing in and out. I don’t think I would’ve even realized that class was over if it weren’t for Mr. MacKinnon stopping by my desk to remind me of our appointment at three thirty. Rising, I leave his classroom. I sit down on the steps in the front of the building and rest my head on my knees. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here on the steps, but something breaks through the cold, bone-chilling numbness within me. A fluttering in my stomach brings me out of my daze. Reed stands in front of me with a look of concern on his perfect face.

  His way too perfect face, I correct myself in my mind. I think he asked me if I was okay, but when I just stare at him, he looks around and seems to make a decision. He lifts me up, removing me from the stairs. Entering the Fine Arts building once again, Reed carries me into an empty photography-class dark room before closing the door and locking it behind us.

  It’s a dimly lit, maze-like chamber with numbered mounted cameras along the wall that look like long-legged cranes spaced between cubby-like niches. Winding past a partition, there are countertops full of plastic developing trays and chemical bottles. In the back is a smaller room; a worn green sofa and a couple of old, mismatched lounge chairs are grouped together in a private seating area.

  Reed sits down on the dull-green sofa, pulling me with him onto his lap. Reaching over to a low table, he flicks on the softly glowing lamp. My voice falters a little when I mumble, “Reed?”

  “Ah, so you decided to join me. I’m glad. I was beginning to worry that I would have to take drastic steps to bring you back to me,” Reed says in relief.

  “I was thinking,” I reply, not really sure if that is true.

  Reed sounds skeptical, too, as he asks, “Are you quite sure about that? It appeared more like you were catatonic.” When I don’t reply, he asks, “What were you thinking about, Evie?”

  “About all of the things that you can’t talk about, but mostly, I was wondering what it would’ve been like if I were normal,” I murmur.

  “Well, you’re not normal, and we cannot change what we are—how we were created. You were born to be dangerous,” he says seriously. “You should embrace it.”

  “I’m dangerous?” I snort disbelievingly.

  “Very,” he replies plainly.

  “I don’t feel dangerous, I feel small and exposed,” I say, turning my face away from him.

  “Evie, you’re the most dangerous creature I have ever encountered, and I have encountered them all,” he says, playing with my hair.

  “And you would know, right, because you’ve been around since, what, the dawn of time?” I state, thinking of Bosch’s gory depiction of the angels at war. Reed stops playing with my hair and I take a deep breath before I ask, “Were you one of the fallen angels, or were you one of the angels who cast them out?”

  Reed is silent, and his face betrays not a hint of what he’s thinking. I take another deep breath, forging on by saying, “I’m leaning toward a divine angel. I can’t see you on the wrong side of an argument.” I pause to see if he’d say anything. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing. I close my eyes briefly, attempting to speak past the tightness in my throat. “So that would make me, what? Some kind of evil spawn or something?” Reed’s body grows tense. “You don’t know if I’m half fallen angel or half divine angel,” I surmise thoughtfully. “But, you do know that I’m half human. My mother was human, the sister of my Uncle Jim. It’s just my father that’s the big question mark. You know he’s an angel, but you don’t know what side of your war
he’s on.”

  There is admiration in Reed’s tone as he says, “You are truly a dangerous creature, Evie. I am not Fallen; you’re correct, which means that your perception is remarkable. How old are you?”

  “I’m almost eighteen,” I say, swallowing hard at having my suspicions confirmed. I close my eyes and order myself to breathe evenly.

  “Remarkable,” he says the word again softly. “How did you piece it together?” he asks. I climb off Reed’s lap and sit beside him on the sofa while I explain Bosch’s Paradise panel and the angels battling in the clouds. “What will you be like in a thousand years if you’re this intuitive now?” he wonders aloud, amazement in his tone.

  I know that I must look scared, but I’m angry, too, and it emboldens me. Standing up, I prowl agitatedly toward the counter. “So I can add immortality to my list of bizarre traits? Great, that ought to be interesting, watching all of my friends grow old and die while I never age,” I say with derision. “How old will I get?” I ask, leaning against the counter and looking at him. “You don’t look a day over nineteen.”

  A slow, sexy smile forms on his lips as he says thoughtfully, “That’s about right. You shouldn’t grow to look much older than you are now.”

  I forget to be angry for a second. I pick up a pair of wooden tongs to toy with as I say wistfully, “But you don’t know that for sure because I’m half human. I could drop dead tomorrow of a virus or something.”

  “Not likely, given the fact that we both watched your knee repair itself in a matter of hours,” he points out. “Just like an angel.”

  “So I can’t be killed?” I reply pensively.

  “Everything can die, even angels; it’s just that it would be very difficult for you to do so. You would have to suffer tremendously in order to accomplish it,” he says in a gentle way.

  “Awe-some,” I say sarcastically, setting the tongs down. “What other traits will I inherit from my father? Will I get wings or something?” I ask pessimistically.

  “Probably,” his lips twitch with a suppressed smile, “but I don’t know for sure. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  My eyes narrow. “You don’t have wings!” I say accusingly, “I’ve seen you with your shirt off, and they were clearly absent. Are they retractable or something?” I ask suspiciously.

  “Yes,” he acknowledges with a grin.

  “You flew up on my fire escape, didn’t you—the other night?” I ask rhetorically. He answers me anyway with a smug nod. “How does that work? I would never have guessed that you could just sprout wings at will,” I ask incredulously. I try to imagine the process, and it becomes as ominous as a scene from a horror film.

  “You’ll see,” he replies, giving me no details, and for once, I think I am grateful that he doesn’t elaborate.

  “You know, Reed, I’d rather not,” I reply, chilled.

  I’m quiet for a while, pretending to look at discarded photos that are lying on the counter. A thought occurs to me, and I look over at him, asking tentatively, “Since you’re an angel, you know all about Paradise, I presume?”

  “Yes,” he says, but his tone is guarded as he sits forward a little on the sofa, watching me.

  “Tell me all about it,” I breathe.

  “No,” he states flatly.

  “Why not?” I ask as hurt invades my expression.

  Reed frowns before replying, “Evie, you’re not entirely an angel—you’re also human. You possess something that no angel has ever had, or will ever have, so revealing the secrets of Paradise to you may not be…wise. I’m not even sure if I should discuss Sheol with you.”

  “Sheol? What’s that?” I ask, knowing it wasn’t an especially nice thing just by the way in which the word was spat out, like it left an awful taste in Reed’s mouth.

  “It’s a place, and it has many different names depending on which humans you talk to. Kukula is one, and the House of Falsehood is another name for it, but I think the name you will probably know well is Hell. I could tell you its name in Angel, if you’d like, but it’s the abyss where the Fallen dwell when they wish to hide themselves from us.”

  I shiver at his words; he speaks of things I vaguely believe in. The concepts are there, but to have them pulled out into the light and validated is terrifying. “You said I possess something no other angel has ever had. What do I have that you will never have?” I ask in confusion.

  “You have a soul,” he replies.

  “Oh, you don’t have a soul?” I ask him in surprise.

  “No, only humans have souls—until you, that is. You’re the only angel I have met with a soul…you’re unique,” he says tenderly.

  “You’re saying that I’m a living, breathing paradox?” I reply, feeling stunned.

  “A hybrid,” he reasons kindly.

  “An irony,” I say pessimistically.

  “A divine compromise,” he counters.

  “An abomination,” I say bleakly.

  “No. Never,” he says with his jaw tensing.

  “You said that your first impulse when you saw me was to destroy me,” I say sadly, thinking that he may’ve been justified to feel that way.

  “I’m sorry, Evie,” Reed sighs, “but angels are jealous creatures,” he explains. “You may recall as well that I said I also wanted to love you and protect you, all at the same time.”

  I frown in confusion. “You were jealous of me?” I ask with skepticism.

  “You have a soul,” Reed says as if that explanation is enough.

  I wrinkle my nose. “And?” I ask.

  “And, what do you think our war is about? It’s about souls,” he replies.

  My brow unfurls. “Oh, so you would like a soul?” I ask.

  “Isn’t that what I just said?” he replies with a sensual tilt of his lips.

  “Why don’t you just fly off to Heaven and ask for one? It seems that they might be handing them out now?” I ask, gesturing with a flick of my hand toward the sky.

  His smile falters. “Evie, I can’t go to Heaven unless I’m called,” he explains with a note of longing in his tone that I’ve never heard from him.

  Crossing back to the sofa, I sit beside him and stifle my sudden urge to press my lips to his to try to kiss away his sadness, mainly because I don’t know how he’d react. “Oh, so how often do they call you back?” I ask, thinking he must’ve been away for a while because he seems almost homesick.

  “Evie, I’ve never been called back,” he states evenly.

  My eyes widen, and I ask breathlessly, “Never?” That would mean he has been here nearly forever.

  Reed’s voice sounds hollow when he replies, “Never. I have my mission. I’m aware of what needs to be done.”

  “Let me get this straight. Are you saying you’ve been here, on Earth, since nearly the dawn of time?” I ask, trying to grasp the concept of that kind of time.

  “Yes,” he affirms.

  “Doing what?” I wonder aloud.

  “Doing what I’m created to do,” he says, while his hand begins to rub my arm in a comforting way.

  “And what’s that?” I ask, waiting for his dreadful answer.

  I’m not disappointed; it is extremely dreadful to me when he says, “Destroying evil. Fighting the legions of the Fallen damned. I’m a soldier, Evie, an assassin…I told you that.”

  “Holy crap!” I squeak.

  “Yes,” he smiles at the irony. I can hardly breathe as my heart beats out of control with a mixture of panic and awe. “Evie, are you okay?” he asks me soothingly.

  “No.” I’m not okay. How is any of this okay? He’s a real angel.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, touching my cheek lightly so I’d look at him.

  “Ha! What could be wrong, Reed?” I snap. “You’re a freaking angel, I’m a…I don’t even know what I am…I could be a Trojan horse for all I know. Maybe we should crack me open and see if a bunch of men in skirts jump out of me,” I say in exasperation.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, th
ere is nothing in you but you, I would know,” he says patronizingly.

  “Of course you would, because you’re an angel!” I whisper-shout at him.

  “Shh…Evie, it is okay,” he says, while smoothing my hair behind my ear. “It will be all right. You have a soul. That means that you are capable of redemption. So, no matter where you came from, you have that gift.”

  Tentatively, I ask, “So you’re saying it’s possible for me to get into Paradise, even if my dad’s a fallen angel?” I couldn’t bring myself to say demon, preferring the less morose term of fallen angel.

  “Yes,” he says, like a caress.

  “Because of my soul?” I ask, feeling a modicum of relief.

  His expression darkens, “Yes, however—” he begins before I cut him off.

  “What?”

  Reed sighs reluctantly, “There are certain…drawbacks to an angel possessing a soul.”

  “There are…what would they be?” I ask with a sinking ache in the pit of my stomach.

  “There are many who would covet your soul and try to destroy you in an attempt to obtain it,” he says, watching my face for signs of distress.

  “So, you’re saying I’m a target?” I ask as calmly as possible.

  “Yes, for some. For others, you are more like a prize or a trophy, and for the truly damned, you could be a solution to a desperate situation,” Reed says softly, his eyes training on mine.

  What kinds of monsters are out there just waiting for something like me to come along? I shudder inwardly.

  The hair on my arms prickle as I whisper, “My soul would be a ticket out of Hell…I mean Sheol?”

  Reed pulls me to him, hugging me protectively. “Precisely,” he says as if he’s proud of me for coming to the correct conclusion. I, however, am wishing that I could go back to being blithely ignorant.

  With my head resting against his chest, he says, “Your soul is capable of surviving in an angelic body. I haven’t seen that before. I’m certain that no Fallen have seen you yet…they would be so attracted to you, for many reasons. You represent the ultimate danger; you are what had always been forbidden to them. I don’t want to know what one of them would do to you if he found you, and I wonder how you could have remained a secret for so long,” he says, squeezing me tighter as if he would protect me even now.